The mountains are calling and I must go.

The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.

I love to think of nature as an unlimited broadcasting station, through which God speaks to us every hour, if we will only tune in.

Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.

May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds.

It is not light that we need, but fire it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake.

Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.

Birds sing after a storm why shouldn't people feel as free to delight in whatever remains to them?

When I have a terrible need of - shall I say the word - religion. Then I go out and paint the stars.

Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.